


A Burglar in Erebor

by Skulduggery



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Female Bilbo, Female Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Genderbending, Rule 63, Young Thorin, pre-Smaug Erebor, wonky timeline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-03 12:18:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skulduggery/pseuds/Skulduggery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prior to the fall of Erebor to Smaug the Dragon, Gandalf the Grey brings a peculiar pair of visitors to the majestic halls of the Mountain. Two hobbits, a mother and a daughter, to whom he promised the adventure of a lifetime. </p><p>Bilba Baggins gets all that and more when she's accused of stealing the Arkenstone and is chased through the halls of Erebor by the city guard, only to be rescued by none other than one of its young princes-- who in turn finds the burglar to be an enchanting curiosity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Prince and the Burglar

**Author's Note:**

> Dammit.
> 
> I told myself I wasn't going to start writing this until after I was done with finals. But I woke up this morning and half of the first chapter had already written itself in my head, so I had to get it out before I lost my muse.
> 
> So here we are. This is something of a spin-off from my other fic, Heart of Winter. I've enjoyed writing a young female Bilbo, and I was curious to explore how the Bagginshield relationship might differ with a younger, less world-weary Thorin. You'll notice that here he is happier and more talkative-- his younger personality is modeled partially on Fili and Kili, flavored with that same regal command we see in his older self. 
> 
> This is... completely gratuitous fun, and I have no idea where it's going. Enjoy.

“Bother, bother, bother!” huffed Bilba Baggins as she fled through the decadent stone corridors of Erebor. “Bother and confusticate these dwarves!”

It was difficult to say exactly how she had ended up on the run from the royal guard, but she was fairly certain it had to do with a small accident and a gross misunderstanding. In her pocket was resting a large, white stone that swirled inwardly with its own light. And she was quite positive that the stone was what had them shouting “THIEF!” and brandishing their weapons at her. But the truth was, she hadn’t picked it up with any intention of taking it—she had only picked it up because she had figured it had been misplaced.

In hindsight, she supposed that running from the guards when they’d drawn their weapons and advanced on her had probably been a bad idea. But she’d panicked, having never been threatened by the wrong side of a sword in her life—and now here she was, more than a little lost in the deep places of Erebor, wishing for all the world that her mother and Gandalf would show up again and save her from this madness. They had wandered off with King Thror while she was preoccupied with watching his grandson fight in the arena, and since losing her chaperones, things had gone dramatically downhill.

The next time a wizard asked if she’d like to go on an adventure, she was going to give him a swift kick in the shin.

Bilba could hear the guards gaining on her. She’d had the advantage of size and speed, while the guards were all weighed down with a veritable mountain of gear—but they’d also had years of military training, and her lack of stamina was beginning to show.

They were just around the corner, now. Desperately, she fled through the first unlocked door she could find. Leaving it ajar behind her, she searched the room frantically for somewhere to hide; fortunately, being a richly decorated set of living quarters, it didn’t look as though that was going to be difficult. She was standing in a luxurious sitting parlor that was separated from a larger bedroom by a tall, angular arch. Desperate to put as much distance between herself and the guards as possible, she darted into the bedchamber.

The sound of boots was in the corridor behind her now, and she cast an anxious look over her shoulder as they drew near.

Then someone grabbed her wrist and yanked hard on her arm. Before she could react, she had been pressed up against the wall next to the archway, and a large, calloused hand was clamped tight over her mouth to prevent her from screaming. She stared wide-eyed at her captor, fairly certain that by this point any scream she might have mustered had been scared right out of her.

He was younger than most of the dwarves she’d met, with narrower features. His pale skin was framed by a sharply contrasting mane of thick black hair and a generous beard which had been gathered into a braided bundle beneath his chin. He was dressed in a tunic of sapphire blue fabric, which only served to bring out the brilliant blue of his striking eyes.

And to Bilba, he was utterly terrifying.

Despite that fact, she couldn’t look away from him as he slowly loosened his grip on her, the hand over her mouth shifting to press only a single finger against her thick lips.

“Shhh,” he quieted, giving her a significant look. Then Bilba heard the guards enter the room and she stiffened, her heart trying to beat its way out of her chest.

“What is the meaning of this?” the dwarf called to the guards, letting go of Bilba and moving into their line of sight.

“Apologies for the interruption, my prince!” called one of the guards. “A burglar has infiltrated the halls of Erebor! We saw her come this way, and we thought—“

“There are no burglars here,” the prince replied coolly. “But if I see one, you shall be informed immediately.”

“Of course, my prince. Apologies again.” There was a rustle of metal gear that Bilba guessed meant the guards were bowing, then they vacated the room, shutting the door behind them.

Though she couldn’t actually say whether her current predicament was an improvement, Bilba’s head rolled back and hit the stone wall with a tiny thunk. “This is not a very good day,” she lamented, more to herself than to the dwarf. When she glanced at him again, she noticed that he had moved back in front of her and was looking her over, one hand stroking his beard in slow deliberation. Ordinarily she would have blushed at such conspicuous examination by a male, but she was fairly certain she had used up her daily allotment of embarrassment and mortification.

Then, with a jolt, the exchange came surging back to her. “The prince! You’re the prince!” Well, perhaps she had a little bit of mortification left in her.

She could have sworn she saw him smile, though it was a slight thing—most noticeable in the way his eyes sparkled. “So I am.”

“Why—why would you send them away?” Her mouth suddenly felt dry and she struggled to form the words properly.

“If I thought you were a threat to my kingdom, something tells me that I could dispatch you myself,” he remarked carelessly, adjusting the long, fur-lined black coat that rested on his shoulders.

Thinking back to when she had watched him spar in the arena, she realized that was probably true. She shrunk back against the wall just a little, eyeing the large blade that hung comfortably from his wide belt.

“You don’t look like a burglar,” he observed. “And you’re neither elf nor human.”

Bilba scowled at him. “I’m not a burglar,” she countered adamantly, which elicited another amused smile from the prince. “I’m a hobbit from the Shire. I’m here with my mother and Gandalf the Grey, as a guest of the king.”

“Really?” he asked, his eyebrows raising in mock surprise. “Far be it from _me_ to detain a guest of the king.”

So maybe she still had a bit of embarrassment left in her too. She felt her cheeks burn at his gibe. “It’s the truth.”

“We’ll see about that,” he said, a peculiar weight in his teasing tone. He held her gaze for one moment more, then turned to pace slowly across the room. He took his time when he finally spoke, as though he were a cat who had cornered a mouse and was only toying with it before he went in for the kill. “Burglar or no, you do have impeccable timing. There is a banquet tonight in honor of Durin’s Day, and I have yet to find myself an escort.”

“I beg your pardon?” she squeaked. She thought she knew what he was proposing, but it sounded utterly mad to her.

“Come to the banquet with me,” he requested, retrieving a long metal shaft from beside the mantle and stoking the low embers of the fire. “If your story is true, then it will be nothing short of appropriate. And if it turns out that you are lying, you will be publically eviscerated.”

Bilba felt her knees go weak and suddenly she felt a peculiar shortage of air. “I—what?”

The prince held the fire poker aloft, letting its wicked point further illustrate his point. “You will be _disemboweled_ in front of a cheering crowd.”

“… Huh,” she managed to whimper. No hope of catching her breath now. Her vision started to blur in a haze of black splotches, then the floor rushed up to meet her.

#

When she awoke, she was laying somewhere impossibly soft, and warm fingertips were caressing the side of her face where it met her hairline. She moaned quietly and reached instinctively for the hand, grasping it weakly. “I had the strangest dream,” she murmured.

Belladonna was unexpectedly silent, and it was then that she noticed the hand was much too large and rough to be her mother’s. Her eyes flew open in shock, and when she saw that it was the dwarf prince hovering over her, she cried out and scampered away from him. He had laid her down in his own bed, she realized in horror.

“Calm down,” he soothed, holding a steadying hand out toward her. “You said yourself that you’ve had an exciting day. Just rest for a few minutes.”

In all honesty, she couldn’t think what alternatives might be available to her, so she reluctantly sank back down beneath the blankets and furs, trying not to think of what a deliciously comfortable bed it was.

“This is horribly inappropriate,” she fidgeted, blushing profusely. “And I don’t even know your name.”

“My name is Thorin,” he responded with a laugh. “And you sound less like a burglar with every passing minute.”

“Thorin,” she repeated, testing the name on her tongue. It was admittedly a very pleasant name, even if he had threatened her with disembowelment. "I'm Bilba."

“What did they accuse you of stealing?” he asked, leaning back in his seat.

“This funny stone that I found,” she murmured, fishing around her skirts to try and find the pocket that held it. “Big and white and I swear that it glows.”

“The—Arkenstone?” Thorin asked, his eyes widening with subtle surprise.

“Yes, that sounds right,” she confirmed, recalling the shouts of the guards. Finally, she located it in her pocket. Pulling it out, she reached out and dropped it into his hand. “I meant to give it back all along, I swear. I can’t imagine how it ended up on the floor, but I was sure that someone must be missing it.”

Thorin stared at the jewel in his hand, turning it over between his fingers and admiring its internal light. “Yes, I’m certain they were.”

“Well, there you have it, then. Safe and sound, no mess, no fuss.”

“Remarkable,” he said, looking up at her, and for a foolish moment she wondered whether he might be talking about her. The thought made her blush under the weight of his scrutiny.

Thankfully, the moment didn’t last long. A knock sounded from the door in the outer chamber, and Bilba bolted up, terrified that the guards had seen past Thorin’s ruse.

“Easy,” he soothed, holding out a hand toward her as he stood to answer the door. “Lay down and stay quiet.” The Arkenstone disappeared into his pocket as he moved into the outer chamber.

“Package for you from the wizard Gandalf, Prince Thorin,” chimed a courier at the door. Thorin thanked him for the delivery and sent him away, returning to the bedchamber with a limp package wrapped in paper. He set it down on a table away from the bed and Bilba heard him gently unwrap the paper, but from her vantage point she couldn’t see what it was.

“I’m only hazarding a guess, but I think this might be for you,” Thorin said flatly. Bilba slowly sat up again, leaning forward to get a better view.

The prince was holding up a finely tailored dress of dark blue velvet the same color as the prince’s tunic. Bilba gaped at the thing—though it was the most beautiful dress she would likely ever wear, she was more preoccupied with trying to work out exactly how Gandalf had known about the prince’s invitation to the banquet.

“That weasel!” she huffed.


	2. The Durin's Day Feast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilba meets Thorin's family and attends the Durin's Day celebration with him.

Supposing that you had encountered Miss Baggins as recently as a month prior to her so-called adventure, and at that time told her that she would be attending a traditional holiday celebration in the greatest kingdom in Middle Earth with its prince as her escort, she likely would have laughed in your face and called you batty. As it was, however, that was precisely the position in which she found herself, and as she took Thorin’s arm to be escorted to the great hall, she wasn’t entirely convinced that she wasn’t the one who had gone batty herself.

“You’re trembling,” Thorin observed, pausing before they reached the door to his quarters.

“I’m—“ Bilba cleared her throat, embarrassed. “I’m only a bit nervous is all. This isn’t an everyday occurrence for most hobbits, you know.” With her hand looped through his arm, she kept getting distracted by the incredibly thick, firm muscle beneath his clothes, and when she was standing so close to him she could smell the lingering ghost of pipe smoke. What _worried_ her was the fact that she wasn’t nearly opposed to either; as a matter of fact, she found herself wishing to explore more of his very un-hobbit-like musculature, and breathe deep the scent that clung to his garb.

Thorin smiled, but whether it was in amusement or encouragement she couldn’t quite tell. Though they had only known each other a few short hours, she had quickly become familiar with the subtlety of his expressions, and she had decided that even if she had a lifetime to grow acquainted with them, she might not ever be able to read him as well as she’d like.

“Come—my siblings will grow restless if we tarry much longer,” he said. Not the reassurance she’d hoped for, but she was unable to dwell on the thought for long, distracted as she was by the prospect of meeting more of his kin.

“Siblings?” she choked as he opened the door for her and ushered her into the hallway. There was a small company of guards waiting, several of whom did double takes when they saw her—and four dwarves she could only assume to be nobility from the way that they were dressed.

“Ho, now, brother, you grow slower with each passing year!” called one of the males. Bilba could see a marked resemblance between him and Thorin, and she had a fair guess that one of the females was their sister. The three of them shared the same thick mane of black curls, and though the younger brother sported a shorter beard than Thorin’s braided bundle, he had a generous helping of thick black hair on his chin. Like Thrór and Thráin, all three of them wore their hair mostly down, but Thorin’s brother had pulled the sides of his hair back and pinned them with a silver clip.

“And what is this odd little thing clinging to your arm?” the brother laughed, folding his arms across his chest as he moved to inspect Bilba. Though he had Thorin’s same penetrative gaze, his eyes didn’t have the same sharpness to them, and the hobbit found herself sticking out her chin in defiance to his rudeness.

“Manners, Frerin,” chided the sister, moving to join them. She was a handsome woman whose thick black locks imposed southward along her jawline, forming what Bilba assumed was the female version of a dwarven beard. Her voice was warm and rich, and its tone was kinder than the men. “Have you a name, little one?”

“Bilba Baggins,” she introduced herself, breaking her hold on Thorin to curtsy. She pointedly faced herself more toward the sister than Frerin, pleased with her manners. “At your service and your family’s.” The royals looked amused, though Bilba couldn’t imagine that she’d already made some kind of mistake.

“Miss Baggins,” Thorin addressed, somehow unable to wipe that tiny smile off of his face, “Allow me to introduce my younger brother Frerin, and our darling little sister Dís.”

“ _Darling little sister_ ,” Dís repeated in an exasperated tone, then she reached out and smacked him lightly on the arm, eliciting a chuckle. “ _Charming_ , brother, as always.” It was a small thing, but the familiar sight of teasing between members of a family put Bilba somewhat more at ease.

“Where did she come from?” Frerin asked, his brow knitting together in curiosity as he regarded Bilba. “What _is_ she?”

“She’s a Halfling,” Dís volunteered, looking to Bilba for confirmation. She seemed pleased with herself for recognizing the fact. “Though I can’t imagine what a Halfling might be doing in Erebor.”

“She’s our burglar,” Thorin explained wryly, casting a sidelong glance toward Bilba. “Surely you heard the outcry.”

“Burglar?” Frerin repeated, obviously confused.

Bilba covered her face with her hands, mortified. “You’re wicked, you are,” she said, peeking over her fingers to give Thorin a seething glare. He laughed, making no attempt to clarify.

“Thorin has notoriously discerning taste in women, so regardless of the meaning of their private joke, I have no doubt that Miss Baggins must have surely done something extraordinary to catch his eye,” Dís said, diplomatically settling the matter. “Now, then, if the two of you are finished making fools of yourselves in front of our guest, might I suggest that we get going. I’ve no doubt that we’re already late.”

Bilba was introduced to Dís and Frerin’s escorts, the former of whom she discovered was also Dís’ fiancée. The guards escorted them through the city to the great hall where, to Bilba’s considerable dismay, a massive crowd was gathered for the festivities. The arrival of the young heirs was heralded, and though Bilba liked to think she handled being paraded around in front of hordes of curious dwarves gracefully, she wanted nothing more than to slip away to somewhere quiet and avoid any and all dwarves for the rest of the night.

Especially Thorin. He was enjoying this far too much. There were a few moments when she inadvertently clung a little tighter to him that she could have sworn she saw his smile broaden just so. She had to resist the urge to kick him in the shin every single time.

Her embarrassment was only worsened when they finally reached the table of the king, where her mother was gawking and Gandalf was stifling a smile. Bilba tried to keep the long-suffering look off of her face until the brunt of the hall’s attention had turned elsewhere.

Though Bilba was brimming with the urge to explain herself, and she could see that Belladonna had more than a few choice words for her, once they were seated they had to wait for King Thrór to give an opening speech. It was short, fortunately—mostly speaking praise to their ancestors and the line of Durin—and then the hall erupted into chaos as the dwarves were given leave to dig in.

“Just where have you been all day, young lady?” Belladonna tapped her fingers impatiently on the table, showing no interest in the food heaped between them.

“Mother, I, um,” Bilba licked her lips and looked to Thorin, who was watching with mild amusement. “I met the prince. Well, princes. And princess. This is Thorin.” Without thinking, she reached out and touched his hand, which was resting on the arm of his chair beside her. And if she was surprised at herself for that, she was even more surprised when his hand shifted just enough that he could capture her tiny fingers in his grip.

“Rest easy, mistress,” Thorin soothed, lifting his free hand to placate Belladonna. “Your daughter had a minor misunderstanding with the guard, but all is well.”

“With the guard?” Despite his reassuring tone, Bilba saw her mother panic. “What on Earth--?”

“It was just an accident, mother,” Bilba said sheepishly.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Belladonna,” Gandalf chimed. “No harm done. As a matter of fact,” he added, glancing at Bilba and Thorin’s joined hands, “I might even say it was a small stroke of luck.”

Bilba didn’t miss his conspicuous implications and recoiled immediately from Thorin’s grip, shooting the wizard a glare.  Fortunately, no one else seemed to pick up on his lack of subtlety. “If I didn’t know better, Gandalf, I might say it almost seems as though you planned for me to get in trouble with the guard,” she accused. “It would explain more than a few things.”

“Oh?” Gandalf feigned innocent surprise, his bushy eyebrows raising. “You make me out to be far too clever, my dear Bilba.”

Dís cleared her throat from just down the table, signaling a change in subject. “Miss Baggins, you must have a great many suitors in the Shire.”

Bilba felt herself blush at the blunt question and struggled to find an answer—until Belladonna provided it for her. “She does,” her mother said proudly. “Not that she’ll have any of them.”

“Really?” Dís remarked, raising a dark eyebrow in mild surprise. “And why is that?”

“Pride,” Belladonna answered, giving Bilba an infinitesimal shake of her head.

“Mother!” Bilba protested. “That’s not true. Not entirely, anyway. I intend to marry for love, and I simply haven’t found the right person yet.” She paused, glancing at Belladonna before turning her gaze downward. Food had been heaped onto her plate for her, though she couldn’t say whether the service had been performed by Thorin or his mother. “The kind of love that is not for the faint of heart, mind you. It takes backbone, and I’ve yet to meet any young hobbit in the Shire that has the strength for it.”

When she glanced up again, she saw that her mother was smiling and Dís was giving her a respectful nod. To her surprise, she felt a hand on her arm, and she looked up to see Thorin’s mother giving her a warm look. “I am glad that Gandalf chose to bring such a curious pair to the doorstep of Erebor,” she said quietly. “You’ve both proven to be very interesting.”

Bilba gave a shy smile in response to that. “Thank you, your highness.”

“Now—eat something,” the elder commanded, nodding toward Bilba’s untouched plate. “You’re such a tiny little thing you’re certain to slip right off the edge of one of our walkways if you don’t put a little weight on your bones.”

Bilba laughed at that, and dutifully retrieved her utensils to do as she’d been ordered. Now that she’d managed to make some semblance of a good impression, she could feel her appetite coming back.

The rest of the banquet was surprisingly enjoyable. Bilba was pleased to discover upon looking around the room that the king’s table was more inclined to cleanliness than the rest of the dwarves; where others were throwing food this way and that, or even getting up onto the tables and brawling, the royal family was almost as civil as hobbits in their eating habits. Eventually, the food and dishes were cleared away, and the dwarves began pushing the tables off to the side of the hall.

“What’s going on?” Bilba asked, furrowing her brow at the cleared space.

“Dancing, of course,” answered the queen, as though it should have been obvious. Bilba felt suddenly distraught, but Thorin grasped her hand, his large palm and fingers swallowing it up entirely.

“Just follow my lead,” he instructed her, looking down at her with a wry gleam in his eye.

In short order, the king’s table was the only one which remained. The royal family and their retainers stood and joined the rest of the dwarves on the floor, and a band took up its place on a portable dais that had been brought into the hall. The king and his wife were the first to take to the floor, starting up a regal and, to Bilba’s dismay, complicated dance. Thrór and his wife followed, and then the rest of the royal family. But when Bilba assumed it was time that she and Thorin join them, she was surprised when he instead took her hand and started leading her to the edge of the crowd.

“Wait, shouldn’t we--?” Bilba asked, looking over her shoulder at the dance floor in confusion.

“Shh,” Thorin prompted for the second time that day, turning an assuredly mischievous look over his shoulder. And for all that his recklessness worried her, she found herself feeling just a touch giddy about the prospect of sneaking off with the prince.

Once they were safely out of the great hall, Thorin looked around at the vast corridors, as though deciding what to do next.

“Where are we going?” Bilba inquired. They were more or less hidden in the shadow of a large pillar, and she took comfort in the privacy. All of the dwarves regarded her with such curiosity, it was getting to be exhausting.

“To see Erebor,” Thorin answered, giving her a simmering look. Then, to her shock, he backed her against the stone of the pillar and trapped her with his bulk.

“I—er—your highness---“ the hobbit stammered, suddenly unable to think.

“Thorin,” he corrected, then leaned down and kissed her. She felt an electric thrill shoot through her body down to her toes, and as much as her mind was telling her to push him away, her fingers inched up into the fur of his coat and threaded experimentally through his hair. The first time he drew back, searching her face for a reaction, she felt a languid sigh pass her lips. Then with a smile, he kissed her again—this time deeper, in a way that made her skin feel as though it’d been set on fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo. This has kind of taken on a mind of its own. I hope it's not moving too fast, but Heart of Winter is my slow burn fic, so this ended up veering in a different direction.
> 
> Also, I got really excited about writing Thorin's family and they've been a lot of fun so far.
> 
> As always, comments and feedback are welcome.


	3. Aurora

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin takes Bilba to see the sights of Erebor and they discuss differences in culture.

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going,” Bilba said with an impatient tug on Thorin’s hand. He’d scarcely relinquished his grip on her through the long, tedious trek through Erebor, and she suspected it was less out of affection and more out of concern that she’d disappear into the crowds the moment he let her out of his sight. And at this rate, she wasn’t convinced he was wrong—she was growing weary of this mystery game he was playing and the thought of slipping away was becoming more enticing by the minute.

“You’ll see,” he assured her as they began climbing a steep flight of stairs. “Have patience, Bilba Baggins.”

“Patience,” she snorted. “Patience is a fine thing but I think I’ve had rather more than my share through this whole ordeal. I’ve dealt with meddlesome wizards, murderous guards, and mischievous princes—and where has it gotten me? Lost! Lost in a mountain with no sense of direction or—“

She was abruptly cut short when at last they reached their destination—a balcony carved high into the exterior of the mountain, offering one of the most majestic views she was sure she’d ever live to see.

The sky was inky black, scattered with a thick dusting of stars that glittered overhead. They congealed into the same familiar nebulae and constellations she knew from home, spanning the darkness like a heavenly bridge across the horizon. More than that, however, were shimmering curtains of strange dancing blue-green light, silently shifting across the darkened sky. She’d never seen anything like it before—an alien, hypnotic dance that illuminated the cold earth below.

“What is that?” she breathed, subconsciously pressing a little closer to him. “Magic?”

“No,” he answered warmly, wrapping one arm around her and pulling her against his body. She told herself she was allowing it because it was very cold outside, and he emanated heat like a furnace. “It’s called an aurora.”

“Aurora,” she repeated, resting her head against his shoulder. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my entire life.”

“It only happens here in the north,” he said, his face turned up toward the sky. “My mother has always said that it’s a sign of Mahal’s blessing on the Lonely Mountain. Tonight more than ever, during the celebration of Durin’s Day.”

Bilba shifted just a little to look up at him. He’d frightened her earlier when they’d first met, when he’d looked on her with fierce, evaluating eyes, then ruthlessly teased her and tricked her into attending the banquet with him. But she’d found him to be more and more likeable the better she got to know him. He had a subtle sense of humor, true, and she didn’t always catch onto his teasing, which sometimes left her feeling that his amusement came at her expense. But she also got the sense that there was a wisdom and thoughtfulness to him in his quieter moments. Unlike all the other dwarves, he was regal and dignified, deliberate in his actions, continually mindful of the consequences of his words and actions—even if he didn’t always care to heed them. More than that, he was utterly fearless, cool-headed and confident, and there was something strangely alluring about a male willing to risk kissing a girl he barely knew. Maybe it was only because she was a stranger to Erebor, and they were unlikely to cross paths again once she returned to the Shire—but he seemed utterly sure of himself in all that he said and did, and that was something she’d never seen in a hobbit.

“What’s Durin’s Day?” she asked, tucking in closer to the warmth of his body.

“Durin was the first of our kind—and I am his direct descendant,” he explained, and Bilba briefly closed her eyes to marvel at the gentle rumble of his voice in his chest. “We honor him when the last sun of autumn shares the sky with the first moon of winter.”

“Dwarves have a lot of respect for their ancestors,” she observed.

“Of course,” he replied. He almost sounded surprised as he glanced down at her. “We owe everything to our ancestors. It was they who came before, who established this realm of riches and power that my people and I now enjoy. It is they who made us strong, who gave us prosperity and peace, who forged my bloodline strong like mithril. It is because of them that I am able to look forward to the day that I will inherit the throne of one of the greatest kingdoms in the world.”

Bilba pulled away from him, slowly backing against the thick stone wall that enclosed the balcony. There she looked him up and down, reciprocating the evaluating gaze he’d given her earlier. “Hail Thorin, King Under the Mountain,” she teased with a sly smile. “Well, you certainly look like a king, I’ll give you that—as to your behavior today, however, I can’t say that I’m impressed. It’ll take more than a bit of work to make a proper royal out of you.”

Thorin gave her a challenging smile, narrowing his eyes a fraction as he advanced on her. Admittedly, she hadn’t thought her position through, and within seconds he had cornered her against the low wall, his thick arms forming an effective trap she was unlikely to escape.

“You find me unworthy,” he said, the low rumble of his voice in his chest making her shiver. “Tell me, then—what must I do to prove myself to you?”

She considered for a moment, resisting the temptation to close the scant distance between them. “Well, you could slay a dragon, for starters. I’ve heard that’s a princely thing to do.”

Thorin scoffed, briefly glancing out toward the horizon. “A dragon,” he repeated. “Unfortunately, I don’t appear to have one on hand at the moment.”

“Or conquer an army,” she suggested. “Preferably a villainous, barbaric one.”

“The elves, you mean?” he asked with a wry smile. “They fit that description perfectly.”

Bilba furrowed her brow, thinking about what she’d heard of elves. She’d never encountered one in the flesh, of course, but they’d always been described as gentle and beautiful.

She didn’t linger on the thought long, however, as Thorin pressed closer, his face hovering inches from her own. “I could always conquer you,” he murmured, his gaze straying down to her lips. “Perhaps that would be convincing enough.”

The temptation was too much to bear. She leaned forward, catching his bottom lip between hers and tasting the tender skin. “If I’m to be your next conquest,” she whispered against his lips, “I’m afraid you’re going to fail.”

With that, she ducked under his arm and dashed for the stairway, but in a surprising display of speed, he beat her to the portal and blocked the way with his bulky form.

“You seem sure of that,” he said, the challenging smile back on his face.

“A little dose of skepticism can be good for an over-inflated ego like yours,” she quipped, planting her hands on her hips. “You can’t always get what you want, and if no one else in this city cares to show you that, then I will.”

“I’m not afraid to work for my prize,” he warned.

Bilba huffed and narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re utterly vulgar,” she teased, shaking her head and turning sharply on her heel. There was nowhere else to go on the balcony, so she settled for putting as much distance as she possibly could between them.

“And you, Miss Baggins, are cruel,” he retorted, pursuing her to the far side of the balcony.

“Me! Cruel!” she laughed. “There’s a first. How so?”

“I was perfectly content before you came along,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “Then the most charming burglar ran straight into my bedchamber—“

“I was running from—“

Thorin clapped his hand over her mouth, pushing her back against the wall with a smile. “And if it were up to me you’d never have left.”

Bilba weakly pried his hand from her mouth. “You’re completely ridiculous. Not princely at all.”

With a little push she was able to shift him out of the way. For all that he seemed to enjoy backing her into walls, at least he knew when enough was enough—and it was strangely satisfying to have such a mountain of a creature yield so willingly to her gentle touch. Free to move, she took a step toward the balcony and looked back out over the darkened land. The aurora was mesmerizing in its own right, but now that her eyes had adjusted to the gloom she was better able to observe the landscape. The most prominent feature as she looked out was a beautiful white city not far from Erebor. Though not as arrestingly majestic as the dwarven kingdom, it had its own sort of exotic charm, and she decided that if they stayed long enough, she would go and explore it for herself.

“That city—what’s it called?”

“Dale,” he answered, moving to stand beside her. “Tradesmen, mostly, feeding off of the wealth of Erebor.”

“You almost make them sound like parasites,” Bilba said disapprovingly.

“Do I?” He raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. “Then you misunderstand. It was the wealth of the dwarves that brought men here to settle, but their presence is mutually advantageous. Though Erebor has a few traveling merchants of its own we prefer to keep to our mountain. We sell our goods to the people of Dale, who regularly send caravans to the far reaches of the map. They, in turn, bring back exotic imports for us to buy.”

“The far reaches of the map?” Bilba echoed. “Like the Shire?”

Thorin looked down on her with the hint of a smile. “I suppose. Yes. Like the Shire.”

“I wish you could see it,” she mused dreamily. “Erebor is beautiful, of course, but—there’s no place in this world quite like the Shire. Rolling green hills, golden sunshine, the sound of children’s laughter carried on the summer breeze…”

“You love it dearly,” he quietly observed.

“It’s my home,” she replied, looking up at him. “I love it no less than you love Erebor, I’m sure.”

That seemed to provoke a moment of thought in him. He stared out across the land, one hand smoothing over the weathered stone of the balcony. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“But it’s true.”

“I believe you,” he assured her, his voice still low. “I suppose I simply find it difficult to believe that anyone could love an empty landscape as much as I love these halls that were hewn from the mountain by my ancestors.”

“Mm,” Bilba smiled at the irony. “To me, these stone halls are cold and lifeless. We hobbits have a deep love for things that grow. I can hardly imagine living in a place like this, without the trees and the flowers and the songs of birds.”

“Then you do not know the stone as I do,” Thorin said, taking her hand and leading her back toward the stairs into the mountain. “A rock does not grow as does a tree or flower, but all the same it has a life of its own. It is an endless thing, continually shaped by the heat and pressure of the Earth—durable, ancient, eternal, as a dwarf seeks to be. It conquers the elements, but yields to the will of our people. When we carve into the stone, it is with respect to the eons that have made it strong—as a carpenter might respect an old tree as he works its wood.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Bilba mimicked with a small smile.

“Come here.” As they reached the bottom of the stairs, he led her to an elaborate carving in the wall and pressed her hand against the stone. Though it was rough and cold against her skin, she imagined it thrumming with its own life and energy. “Feel it. The strength—the heart of the mountain, the years of toil and hardship that have shaped this stone. Unlike a living thing, it will never wither and die, but live on as the tides of my people rise and fall. If you were to choose a home for your children and their children—would you not want it to be in the cradle of something so secure?”

Bilba ran her fingers along the carvings in the stone, closing her eyes when she felt Thorin’s warm hand on top of hers. “I think I’m beginning to understand now.”

“You won’t understand completely without spending time here and truly becoming familiar with the stone,” he said, leaning down to speak in her ear. “But it’s a start.”

She shifted, turning her body to lean against the wall and face him. “And you’d have me stay?” she asked with a teasing smile.

“It’s no right of mine,” he answered, studying her features. “But yes. I would.”

“Unfortunately, it’s no right of mine, either,” Bilba lamented. “This adventure, for all it’s worth, is in my mother’s hands. And I suppose Gandalf’s too. We could leave tomorrow or stay a month as far as I’m concerned.”

“Then I will speak with my grandfather and see to it that they are shown the greatest hospitality that Erebor has to offer.”

“Oh, you needn’t make a fuss,” she blushed. “My mother doesn’t care much for that kind of attention. There are only a few things she does care for—a fine meal, a large party, and an excellent fireworks show. You’ve given her two of the three already, so I’ve no doubt she’s satisfied.”

“Are you fond of fireworks?” Thorin asked, his eyebrows inching upward.

“Yes, very much so,” she answered with a bright smile. “Gandalf has the most excellent fireworks of all, and he’s been bringing them to the Shire for as long as I can remember.”

“If it’s fireworks you want, then fireworks you shall have,” he promised. “Though for all my faith in the craftsmen of Erebor, I cannot promise to top those of a wizard.”

“You make fireworks here?” she asked, unable to hide her surprise.

“Of course,” Thorin chuckled. “No one knows fire like the dwarves. Though we are best known for our fine treasures and armaments, many wondrous things flow from our workshops. Would you like to see?”

“Absolutely.” Her mind filled up with visions of mysterious trinkets and treasures, and it was more than enough to pique her interest. Taking his hand, she followed him back into the heart of Erebor, anxious to see the dwarven wonders he spoke of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's been a while since I worked on this fic! I couldn't resist coming back to it, though, since it has such a special place in my heart. It was just a matter of figuring out what to do with it next. There's not a lot of plot happening here, mostly just gratuitous fluff. (And maybe a bit of foreshadowing?)
> 
> Young Thorin is just fun. He smiles! And I'm really enjoying fleshing out Erebor in its prime.


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